Читать книгу: «The Hallowell Partnership», страница 6

The merry-go-round proved delightfully thrilling, especially to Mr. Finnegan, who rode round and round in a gilded sea-shell, barking himself hoarse in dizzy ecstasy.

Just before noon the crowd, now astonishingly large, gathered at the little running track to watch the sports. First came the sack-races; then the pole-climbing; then the potato-race. Finnegan, by this time delirious with excitement, had to be held down by main force to discourage his wild ambition to take an active part in each event. Last on the programme came the greased-pig race.

Now, the greased-pig race dates back a hundred years and more, to the days when the Kentucky pioneers met for their rare frolics of house-raising or corn-husking. It is a quaint old sport, very rough, very grimy and breathless, very ridiculously funny. A lively little pig is chosen and greased with melted tallow from head to tail. Then he is set free on the running-track. Half a minute later, the starting-gun booms the signal for his hunters to dash in pursuit. The winner must capture piggy with his bare hands and carry the squirming, slippery armful back to the judges' stand. If piggy escapes en route, the race must be run over again from the very start.

The competitors are boys and young men. Only the fleet-footed can hope for a chance at success. But even as the starter stood calling the race through his big red megaphone, a tall, elderly man shouldered up to their group and hailed Mr. McCloskey.

"Good-day, commodore! You're here to see the greased-pig race? My faith, do you remember the race that we two ran, down in Pike County in '63?"

The commodore beamed at his old neighbor.

"'Deed an' I do. And it was meself that captured that elegant pig, I remember."

"You did that. But it was by accident entirely. For I had all but laid my hand on the pig when you snatched it from under my grasp. I've grudged ye that pig ever since."

The little commodore's eyes snapped. He bristled from the crest of his white head to the toes of his polished boots. His voice took on an ominously silver tone.

"By my word, I'm sorry to learn that that small pig has stood between us all these years, Mister Jennings. If it could give you satisfaction, I'd beg you to run that race over again with me. Or, we might race each other in the contest that is just about to take place. What do ye say?"

For a minute, the astounded Mr. Jennings found nothing whatever to say.

"Now, commodore!" protested gentle Mrs. McCloskey, round-eyed with reproach. "You'd not think of runnin' a half mile this hot noon in the face of all your friends an' neighbors, an' all for one small pig! And you seventy last month, an' that suit of clothes bought new from Saint Louis not the fortnight ago!"

"You don't understand, Mary. I'd run the race if there was no pig at all under consideration, so it would give my friend Mister Jennings peace of mind," said the little commodore hotly. "What do ye say, sir? Will you join me, an' prove once more which one of us is the rale winner?"

Very red and disconcerted, Mr. Jennings stood on one foot, then the other, in a torture of indecision. Then he threw off his coat.

"I've never taken a dare like that yet, McCloskey. And I don't begin now. Come along."

"Commodore!" Poor Mrs. McCloskey's shocked voice pursued him. But the commodore would not hear. Mr. Jennings was already clambering the rail to the running-track. Lightly as a boy, the commodore vaulted after him. Shoulder to shoulder the two joined the group before the judges' stand.

There ran a ripple of question through the crowd, then a storm of delighted cheers and laughter. Mr. Jennings wriggled in sheepish torment. The commodore, sparkling and debonair, bowed to the throng and hung his Panama on a fence-post.

Then down the running-track fled a small, shiny black object, squealing in glad escape. Instantly a shot crashed; then came a thundering shout:

"Ready – go!"

With whoops and yells the group of runners raced away down the track. The commodore kept well in the lead. He ran as lightly and as easily as did the boys that forged alongside him. Mr. Jennings puffed and pounded farther in the rear at every turn. They made the first lap of the race. At the second turn the commodore, only third from the lead, waved his hand to Mrs. McCloskey and the girls with a flourish of mischievous triumph. Marian and Sally Lou, tearful and choking with delight, clasped hands and swayed together in helpless rapture. Thus completely absorbed in the spectacle, they let go of Mr. Finnegan's leash.

That was all that Finnegan wanted. With one glad yelp he hurled himself through the fence and bounced like a ball, straight into the midst of the fray. Far in advance fled a shiny black object. Finnegan knew his duty. The commodore was hurrying to catch that object. It was Finnegan's part to aid in that capture at all costs. Yelping madly, he tore away down the track.

"Oh, it's Finnegan! Oh, the little villain! If I had only left him at home!" Poor Marian strove to call him back. But against the uproar of the crowd her voice could not make a sound. "Oh, the naughty little sinner, he will catch that pig himself and spoil the race for everybody. Look, Sally Lou! He has almost caught up with the pig this minute!"

Even as she spoke, Finnegan, running at top speed, shot ahead of the fleeing pig. Then, with a frenzied bark, he whirled and charged straight at the prize.

This front attack was too much for any pig's self-control. Not content with galloping murderously at his heels, his pursuers had set this ferocious brute to destroy him! With a squeal of mortal panic the little fellow turned right-about and bolted. Shrieking, he dashed back, straight into the crowd of runners.

"Oh – oh! He's right under the commodore's hand! Oh, if he wasn't so slippery – Look, quick, Marian!"

"Well, will you look at that now!" Mrs. McCloskey's mild voice rose in a laugh of triumph. "Sure, I never yet knew the commodore to fail if once he'd set his head to do a thing!"

"If only he can keep fast hold of the pig till he reaches the judges' stand," whispered Sally Lou. All three gazed in pale suspense at the commodore, now striding gayly up the race-track, the pig squirming and squealing wildly in his arms.

"I'm mistrustin' that myself," said Mrs. McCloskey, nervously, "for the little animal is not so convenient to hold, bein' he's so glassy smooth. But trust the commodore. He'll not fail, now."

The commodore did not fail. Calm and majestic, as if he strode a quarter-deck, he paced down the track and halted before the judges' stand, his shrieking prize held high. As the umpire bent forward to give him the champion's blue ribbon, the crowd broke loose. No Olympic victor ever received his laurel in the face of a more enthusiastic tumult.

"I give up," puffed Mr. Jennings, fanning himself with his hat. "You caught that pig fair an' square, commodore. The honors are yours."

"Tut, tut, 'twas no great matter," declared the commodore modestly, as the girls heaped him with praises. "'Twas just a moment's divarsion. And it took no skill whatever, though I will own that to carry the little felly back to the judges' stand demanded some effort on me part. You will observe that a pig furnishes but few handholds, particularly when he's that slippery and excited-like. Yes, Mary, perhaps we'd best be startin' home, as it's so near sundown."

"Well, but these girls must not go home empty-handed," urged Mrs. McCloskey. "Think of your poor boys, who could not take a day off for the burgoo! We must carry home a taste for them. Go to yonder booth and buy a market-basket, commodore. Then we'll pack in a few samples."

Marian and Sally Lou looked on in silent amaze while Mrs. McCloskey packed the few samples, including a tall jar of the delicious burgoo, a dazzling array of cookies and preserves, and a fat black-currant pie. Meanwhile the commodore was fitting his treasured pig neatly into a small crate, much to the dismay of the pig and the keen joy of a large group of on-lookers.

At last basket and crate were made ready. Tired out by their long, absurd, delightful day, the party settled themselves aboard the commodore's launch and started home. The trip downstream to camp was made in rapid time. It was just dusk when they reached their own landing. Roderick and Ned Burford had heard the commodore's whistle and were waiting to help them ashore.

"What sort of a day was it, Sis?"

"Yes, tell us, quick, if you had any fun. We have put in a gruelling day of it here," added Burford. "Three break-downs on the little dredge and a threatened cave-in on the first lateral! Go on and tell us something cheerful."

Marian and Sally Lou stole a glance backward. The commodore was just putting his boat into mid-stream. He was safely out of earshot. With almost tearful laughter the two girls poured out the story of the day.

"You brought home the best of the day to us," said Ned, as they spread the "samples" on a tiny deck table, picnic-fashion. "We fellows only laid off our levee shifts a few minutes ago. We're rushing that construction before the creeks rise any higher. So neither of us has eaten a mouthful since noon. This luncheon will taste like manna in the desert. S'pose Mammy Easter would make us a pot of coffee, Sally Lou? Then we could ask no more."

"I'll go to the cabin and coax her to do it. I want a peep at the babies, anyway."

Sally Lou sprang up and started toward the gangway. At the cabin door she stopped short. Her voice rang out, a frightened cry.

"Ned Burford! Come quick! What is that blazing light away up the ditch? Is it – Oh, it is one of the boats – it is the big dredge! And it is on fire!"

Ned Burford leaped up. His startled voice echoed Sally Lou's cry.

"Hallowell! It's the big dredge, the giant Garrison! Wake up and pitch in. Hurry!"

Days afterward Marian would try to recall just what happened during those wild moments; but the whole scene would flicker before her memory, a dizzy blur. She remembered Roderick's shout of alarm; the rush of the day-shift men from their tents; the clatter of the racing engine as Rod pushed them into the launch, then sent the little boat flying away up the canal. Then, directly ahead, she could see that dense black pillar of smoke rising straight up from the dredge deck, shot through with spurts of flame.

Burford's half-strangled voice came back to them as he groped his way across the deck.

"It's a pile of burning waste, right here by the capstan. Bring the chemical-extinguishers … no time to wait for the hose… Wet your coats, boys, and let's pound her out… Whe-ew! I'm 'most strangled… Sally Lou Burford! You clear out! You and Marian, too. Go away, I tell you. This is no place for you!"

Sally Lou and Marian stood doggedly in line passing the buckets of water which one of the laborers was dipping up from over the side. Roderick, stolid as a rock, stood close by that choking column of smoke and flame and dashed on the water. Burford rushed about, everywhere at once, half mad with excitement, yet giving orders with unswerving judgment.

"Can't you start the pumping engine, boys? Swing out that emergency hose, quick. There you are! Now turn that stream on those oil barrels yonder – and keep it there. Start the big force-pump and train a stream on the deck near the engines. The fire mustn't spread to the hoisting-gear. Mind that. Mulcahy, give me that chemical-tank. Wet my handkerchief and tie it over my mouth, Sally Lou. No, give me your scarf. That's better. I'm going to wade right in. Aha! See that?"

The smoke column wavered, thinned. A shower of water, soot, and chemicals drenched everybody on deck. Nobody noticed the downpour, for the smoke column was sinking with every moment.

Burford staggered back, half smothered. The extinguisher fell from his hand. But the force-pumps were working now at full blast. Stream after stream of water poured on the fire, then flooded across the deck. Two minutes more of frantic, gasping work and not a spark remained – nothing save the heap of quenched, still smoking waste.

Dazed, Marian found herself once more on the house-boat deck. Ashore the laborers were flocking back to their tents, laughing and shouting. For them it had been a frolic rather than a danger. But the four on the house-boat deck looked at each other without a word. They were too shaky with relief to move or to speak. Sally Lou, the steady-willed, dependable Sally Lou, clung trembling to Marian, who in her turn leaned rather weakly against the rail. Roderick, ashen white, confronted Burford, who stood absently mopping his wet, smarting eyes with Sally Lou's singed and dripping crêpe scarf. Suddenly Burford broke the tension with a strangled whoop.

"Our – our daily reports to the company!" he gurgled. "President Sturdevant wants every day's detail. Let's put it all in. 'I have the honor to report that while your engineers were stoking with burgoo and black-currant pie, Garrison Dredge Number Three was observed to be on fire. Your engineers, assisted by their partners, said engineers' wife and sister, all of whom displayed conspicuous bravery, attacked the fire. Thanks to their heroic efforts, the conflagration was extinguished. I beg further to report that damages are confined to one pile of waste, one smooched pink silk scarf, and'" – he passed his hand over his smutty forehead – "'and one pair of eyebrows.'"

"I'm going straight home to bed," vowed Marian, as the laughter died away in exhausted chuckles. "This day has brought so many thrilling events that it will take me at least a week to calm myself down. Do let us hope that nothing whatever will happen for a while. I'm longing for monotony – days, months, ages of monotony, at that!"

And, even as she spoke, there was a shout from the pier. Mulcahy came running toward them at top speed.

"Will you look at Mulcahy, sprinting up from the ditch! I'll wager he has some more bad news for us. Come, Hallowell. Hurry!"

CHAPTER IX
THE MAGIC LEAD-PENCIL

"Bad news, is it?" puffed Mulcahy. "Indeed, sir, I'm sorry to be the one to bring it to you. Lateral Four has caved in again."

"Lateral Four! The cut where we've spent more time and work, filling in, than we've spent anywhere else on the whole ditch!"

"Yes, Lateral Four. The ungrateful piece of fill she is! And when you have shored up the margins with brush, twice over!"

"How far up is the cave-in, Mulcahy?"

"Half a mile from the mouth. Right where Mr. Ellingworth Locke's land begins, sir."

"Right on President Locke's land! Will you hear that, Hallowell? And he's the biggest grumbler in the whole district! And the most powerful grumbler, too. Of all the hard luck!"

"I do hear. And I'm going to get busy." Rod pulled himself together with a grim little chuckle. "It's an all-night job, Burford. Or else we can add one more calamity to our head-quarters report. 'One bad cave-in, on lateral draining land owned by H. R. H., the acting president of the Central Mississippi Association.' Do you see us putting in that cheery news?"

"No, I don't. Not just yet." Burford wiped the last soot-streak from his chin and jumped into the launch. "Here we go!"

"Wait a jiffy, Burford. You'd better stay by the dredge an hour or so. Keep the men at work flooding her deck. We can't be certain-sure that the fire is completely out. There's always a risk."

"That's a fact. You go up to the cave-in and set the levee crews to work. I'll follow in an hour."

Rod started his engine, but Marian stopped him.

"Wait, Rod. Take me up to the lateral, too."

"Take you up to the cave-in, you mean? Why on earth should you go? At this time of night – "

"Because I want to see just what you have to do. I'm getting very much interested in the work, truly. Please, brother."

"Of all the notions!" Rod looked completely puzzled. Yet a warm little gratified smile brightened his tired face. Again he felt the heart-warming satisfaction that he had felt on the day he had come home, fagged and blue, to find that Marian had sorted all his accounts and cleared up his reports for him. It was wonderfully pleasant to find that his sister could show such real comradeship in his work.

"Of course you shall go with me if you wish, dear. Hop in. Careful!"

"Let me steer, Rod."

"Think you can see all right?"

"With this big search-light? I should hope so. Lie down on the cushions and rest for two minutes. I'll run very carefully."

"Good enough." Rod stretched his weary bones on the seat. At the end of the six-mile run he sat up, with a shamed grin.

"Lazy sinner I am, I dropped off the minute I struck those cushions. My, that snooze makes one thirsty for more! Put the launch inshore, Sis. Hello there, boys! Is that Dredge A crew? Why, how did you swing the dredge downstream so quickly?"

"We had steam up, so we dropped down the lateral the minute we got word of the cave-in," answered the dredge foreman. "It was Mister Jim Conover who happened by and saw the landslip, sir. He came a-gallopin' over with his horse all lather, and brought us the news, not fifteen minutes after it happened. Then he called his own hired men and a crowd of neighbors, and they all set to to shore up the bank, above and below the break, with sand-bags and brush. They're workin' at it now, sir, lickety-cut." He pointed up the lateral to a dim glow of torch-light. "Shovellin' away like beavers they are, sir. There won't be another slump in that margin, you can depend on that. They've saved you and the company two days' work and five hundred dollars clear in damages alone, I'm thinkin'."

"Five hundred damages? It would have been nearer a thousand if they hadn't stopped that slide on the double-quick." Roderick sat staring at the hurrying figures in the dull glow of smoky light. He could hardly grasp this amazing stroke of fortune. "But how – why – I never heard of such a royal piece of kindness!"

"It's all Conover's doing. He said you folks had done mighty neighborly by him, and that he wanted to show his appreciation."

"Conover! Why, I never even heard the man's name till now!"

"Conover?" Marian screwed up her forehead. A vague recollection flickered in her mind.

"Yes, sir, Conover. He has a good-sized farm back here a piece. Likely you've forgotten. There's him and his wife and his little girl. Crippled she is, the poor child. Mamie, they call her."

"Mamie Conover – Oh! The poor little soul who was so delighted with your red pencils, Rod! That visitors' Sunday, don't you remember?"

"Oh, to be sure. You're better at remembering than I am, Sis. Well, I'm going up to thank him, this minute. Then we'll ship the dredge into trim and begin digging out the channel again. Think it will take us all night?"

"Now that Conover's gang has stopped the slide so good and square for us, we ought to be able to cut out and tamp down, too, by daybreak, sir. Maybe sooner. Here comes Conover this minute."

Coated with mud, squashing heavily into the sodden crest of the bank with every step, Conover tramped down the ditch. In that shambling figure, Marian instantly recognized little Mamie's father. Vividly she remembered his deep, weary look at her, the infinite tenderness with which he had lifted the little frail body from her arms.

In the white glare of the search-light, his gaunt face was radiant with friendly concern.

"We've done what little we could, Mr. Hallowell," he said, in reply to Rod's eager thanks. "Little enough at that. But now if you'll put in a few hours' dredging to get out that slide, your ditch will be all right again. Mr. Locke there, whose land borders on this lateral, is a little – well, a little fussy, you know. That's why we fellows kinder butted in and set to work without waitin' to hear from you. Land, it wasn't nothing to thank us for. Just a little troke between neighbors. You here, Miss Hallowell? My buckboard is right up-shore. Can't I drive you to Mr. Gates's? It's right on my way home – only a mile or so off my road, that is."

"Run along, Sis. Please. It's late and damp, and chilly besides. Scoot, now."

"But I don't want to go, Rod. I want to stay and see the dredge make the cut over again. This is the most interesting performance I ever dreamed of."

"I'd much rather have you go home, old lady. You can't see much in this half-light. And you can't help me. Worse, you'll catch cold sure and certain." Yet that odd little glow warmed Rod's heart once more. It was a wonderful satisfaction to hear Marian speak with such keen interest of his beloved work.

"Well, then – " reluctantly Marian scrambled ashore. Mr. Conover wiped his muddy hands on the lap-robe and helped her into the buckboard, with awkward care. They drove swiftly away, up the wide country road, between the dark, level fields.

Neither spoke for some minutes. At last Marian began, rather clumsily, to tell him of their exciting day.

The man made no comment. Still more clumsily, she tried to thank him for his generous and timely aid to Roderick.

Suddenly Mr. Conover turned to her. In the faint starlight she saw that his dull face was working painfully.

"So you want to thank me for this job, eh? Why, if I'd done ten times as much, I wouldn't have begun to do what I want to do for you and your brother. I've been aimin' to come over and tell you, long ago. But seems like I never get around to it. Don't you mind about them red pencils?"

"Those red and blue pencils of Rod's, you mean? What of them?"

"What of them? My, if you could see Mamie with them, you wouldn't ask!" The color burned in his thin face. His eyes were shining now. "They're the one pleasure that ain't never failed her. If I could ever tell you what they've meant! I've sent to the city and bought her three or four dozen assorteds, so's to be sure she never gets short of all the colors. No matter how bad her back hurts, she'll set there in her pillows and mark away, happy's a kitten. Seems like long's she's workin' with those pencils, she forgets everything, even the pain. And that's the best we can ever do for our baby." His voice broke on a terrible and piteous note. "The only thing we can do – help her forget."

There was a long silence.

"An' then you talk as if what I did to-night could count for anything – alongside of that!"

Marian's own lips were quivering. She did not dare to reply.

Yet as she put out her bedroom candle and stood looking out on the dark starlit woods, the narrow black ribbon of the canal, a whimsical wonder stirred in her thought.

"I'll tell Rod to-morrow that his red pencils must have the credit of it all. It's the story of the little Dutch hero who stuffed his thumb into the crack in the dike and saved the city, right over again. Only this time it's something even tinier than a thumb that has saved the day. It's just a little red lead-pencil. And, oh, how glad I am for Roderick's sake! The dear, stodgy old slow-coach, I'm proud of every inch of his success. Though maybe Slow-Coach isn't just the fitting name for Rod nowadays. Sometimes the slow coaches are the very ones that win the race – in the long run."